


Statistic

by wrenaissance



Category: Scrutinized (Video Game), Welcome to the Game (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Honestly it’s just a little drabble, Mention of Death, mention of murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenaissance/pseuds/wrenaissance
Summary: Why are people just... statistics?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Statistic

A statistic.

Just a goddamn statistic.

Another addition to a percentage of who was murdered. An addition to the number of people killed in this region. Who died at this age. Who contributed to this serial killer’s repeated murders.

Of course, what else are you supposed to count the victim of a serial killer as? A human? A life? Hah. As if the government care about anything other than statistics.

She was 19. Living with her parents and it just so happened they lived in this neighborhood. You’d think we’d be safe with a neighborhood watch, and someone who works for the police just down the way, but, no. Young Maria was only 19 when that man unlocked the window and slid in and injected her with some— some kind of chemical— and she was found dead this morning (two hours ago, by this time) by her little brother.  
Some sick world we live in.

Maria’s just another goddamn statistic as the cops investigate and find relatively nothing— no finger prints or dna, no witnesses. Neighborhood watch? For what, exactly?

I find it hard to sit at the kitchen table this morning, fingertips drumming carefully on the tabletop with my legs crossed carefully under, a plate with toast and eggs in front of me and my phone in my hand. I can still hear the men in uniforms wandering about outside, their footfalls heavy on the dirt and their occasional conversation muffled through the walls.

I didn’t want to read it, but my mind keeps wandering to the article I’ve seen on my social media again and again and again. The article about Maria.

I get a text from my mother. It’s a link... to the article about Maria.

I set the phone down, sighing and putting my head in my hands. My fingertips feel numb and my palms are sweaty because how could they not be? I know what happened next door. There’s 15 feet between me and the wall, another 20 feet from my house to the one next door, and in that very front bedroom was where she was murdered.

Murdered.

The very thought makes my blood run cold. It’s almost sickening to think about. The fact that I used to read murder mysteries and now I’m sitting barely 40 feet from one. In fact, it’s very sickening to think about.

My plate of cooled breakfast is forgotten as I rush from my chair, knocking it over and the clatter falls silent on my ears as I make a beeline for the bathroom, head over the toilet as I lurch up whatever is in my stomach. Mostly bile.

This feeling is vile and my nerves are so shot.

I take a deep breath but the taste of vomit is fresh and strong in my mouth, I can start to smell it after a second or three. I sit back against the bathtub, arm still half wrapped around the toilet as if it were a friend’s shoulders. I try to take my mind away but once again I pull my friend closer and the burning in my throat is alight once again.

I just woke up and I’m already tired again.

My phone is abandoned on the table, and it takes me a good few minutes to get up and go grab it after I hear the ringtone ring once, then twice. Once I finally get to the phone and manage to call back, ignoring the taste that lingers freshly and sourly.

“Hello, dear, you missed my calls.”

“Sorry— Morning, Tanner. I’m just.. a little shaken up.  
“Did you see the news?”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this short read!  
> A person will cross paths with a serial killer on average 7 times during their lives.


End file.
